"Your Grace, one of the Duchess's ladies-in-waiting requests an audience."
"Let her in."
With permission granted, the guard nodded once at Elise and quietly opened the heavy door.
Inside, the study was cloaked in dimness. The only light came from the hearth, where the faint crackle of burning wood echoed in the stillness. The chill that lingered in the room seemed to mirror its master—distant, unyielding. Elise shivered slightly.
She immediately noticed the figure by the window, his back to her, silhouetted against the night. The firelight painted soft, golden edges along the sharp lines of his shoulders, casting his presence in a lonely sort of majesty.
"Your Grace… I've come with a message from the Duchess," Elise said, her voice low, hesitant, as she tried to catch a glimpse of his face. "Her Grace isn't feeling well and… regrets that she cannot meet with you today. She said she will come to see you when she is better, Your Grace."
The Duke did not turn. His gaze remained fixed upon the endless darkness outside the window, eyes like twin stars glowing cold over a faraway sky.
"I see," he murmured, lips curving faintly — not in amusement, but in bitter understanding. So she was avoiding him.
"Yes, Your Grace…" Elise hesitated, sensing the weight in the silence.
"Thank you… Elise, isn't it?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Please let Rosi know I wish her a swift recovery."
"I will, Your Grace. If there's nothing else… I'll take my leave."
Once the door closed behind her, the room returned to its usual stillness — quiet, vast, and untouched. The same as it had always been. And yet… the figure by the window seemed smaller now, swallowed by its solitude.
"Have you ever asked Her Grace what she truly wants?"
Maera's voice echoed in his thoughts.
He had always given what he believed others needed — to his subjects, his vassals — gestures meant to inspire loyalty. Their gratitude had reinforced his belief that this was the way to earn trust… to win hearts.
But she was different.
She was the one thing in his desolate life he couldn't predict, couldn't bend to his will. A light not meant to be held in closed hands.
And somehow, the man who prided himself on knowing everything… had no idea how to love what he cherished most.
"What a fool you are, Dorian Valemont," he whispered with a bitter smile.
Twice now he had made the same mistake.
And perhaps… a man like him truly deserved to be left alone in the cold.
---
It was late into the night.
Though the air had grown milder with the turn of season, the northern chill still crept in, biting through the silence like a quiet shadow.
Rosalind sat curled up by the window, her gaze lost in the stillness beyond. The moon hung low—its crescent glow casting a silvery hue across the deserted garden. Fireflies floated lazily in the dark, their soft glimmers like scattered stars, weaving through the quiet veil of night.
Midnight had long passed, yet she remained there.
The emptiness inside her gnawed relentlessly, making rest an impossible notion.
Since returning to her chambers after dinner, she had wanted nothing more than to disappear—from people, from questions, from the weight of expectation.
She hadn't wanted to see anyone. Especially not him.
So she had asked Elise to tell Dorian she was unwell, just to avoid facing him.
Even though, earlier that evening, she had nearly stormed into his study—burning to ask whether he saw her as nothing more than a dutiful wife, a name on parchment...
Or if he had ever, even for a moment, truly meant it.
"I want to give you true happiness."
He had said it with such ease, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.
And she—like a fool—had believed him.
He had given her hope.
Rosalind had once looked up to her sister Amara—the Grand Princess of the Empire—and her late husband, Elias Hawthorne, the scholar who had never belonged to nobility.
Their love had not sprung from power or wealth.
It had begun with kindness, with understanding, with the quiet sharing of burdens.
The kind of love strong enough to endure judgment, strong enough to carry them through until the very end.
Strong enough for Elias to die without regret—so long as it meant protecting the woman he loved.
Rosalind had never dared to dream of something as radiant.
But when Dorian promised her happiness, she had—against reason—hoped.
Because men like Dorian Valemont— Men who wore their silence like armor, who measured every word and step—
How could they ever truly give their heart to anyone?
Especially to someone who had come to them out of duty... and gain.
In the end, wasn't their entire relationship just a well-crafted alliance?
One where both parties stood to benefit?
Maybe that was why Dorian thought she should be happy—
Satisfied with all the things he had given, and would continue to give.
But control is not love.
The realization made her smile—bitter, quiet, a smile only meant for herself.
How easily she had fallen into the comfort of his gestures…
How foolishly she had let herself bask in a warmth that, like fire in snow, would only flicker briefly before it died out.
"You're a dreamer, Rosalind Castillon,"
she thought,
"Still chasing the glow of a flame that was never meant to burn for you."
---
Outside the pinewood door, a tall figure stood unmoving.
Dorian had no idea how long he had been standing before that tightly shut, silent door.
He didn't knock. Didn't speak.
Just stood there, back leaning into the cold stillness of the corridor, eyes closed for a brief moment, as if listening for something—a faint sound from within, a whisper calling his name… but nothing came.
The night air was so still, he could hear the wind threading through the stone hallways, carrying with it a subtle scent of Northern roses that still clung to his sleeve.
Elise had told him she wasn't feeling well.
Was she truly unwell, or simply unwilling to see him?
Dorian didn't ask. Or rather, he didn't dare to.
He had never been one to demand answers when others weren't willing to speak. But this silence—it unsettled him in a way he couldn't explain.
Perhaps she had misunderstood something.
Or perhaps… she had always seen him this way.
A man who clung to control.
A man who had never truly known how to love someone with his whole heart.
A man who, despite all his promises, kept hurting the only person he ever wanted to protect.
He slowly drew out a single blue rose from his hand—a rare bloom that only blossomed once a year. He had picked it himself that morning, while passing through the gardens near the Everfrost sanctuary.
She had once told him it was her favorite flower.
A bloom born of old magic, yet it did not wither when taken from sacred soil.
Even in a land of ice and snow, it could still bloom with quiet strength.
For a brief moment, he hesitated. Then he bent down and gently laid the flower before the door, beside a small note folded with careful precision.
He had thought of countless things to say—apologies, explanations, promises…
But in the end, when the pen touched paper, only these few words came.
Dorian lingered a moment longer, eyes resting on the narrow slit beneath the door—unchanged from beginning to end.
Then he turned away, silently.
No echo of footsteps. No glance back.
Only the flower and the message remained, waiting at the threshold—hoping that the girl he loved would one day open her heart again, and let a man as clumsy as him try, just once more, to speak what he truly felt.
A breeze whispered through the window pane, gently stirring her from a restless sleep. She didn't know when she had drifted off—only remembered that when she closed her eyes, thoughts of him still lingered. His gentle gaze, too soft to trust. That promise, too fragile to forget.
A moment passed. Then, as if led by instinct, she rose from her seat and walked toward the door. Not out of expectation, but because something inside her stirred—as though someone had once stood there.
As she cracked the door open, the chill of the northern night spilled in, carrying with it a scent she knew too well—faint and fleeting, like snow-dusted blue roses in early bloom.
The silence too perfect, too still. As though someone had once stood there. And perhaps, still was.
She looked down.
A single flower rested there, placed with such care it seemed almost sacred. Beside it, a small folded note, penned in a hand she recognized in an instant.
And perhaps, still was.
"Hope you recover soon, Rosi."
She froze.
For a moment, it felt like someone had gently touched the place inside her that still hurt. No explanations. No pleas. No asking for forgiveness. Just a simple wish—quiet and sincere.
Bathed in moonlight, she lifted the flower in her hands. Its petals were cool, but the warmth blooming in her chest spread slowly, quietly—like the faintest ember refusing to fade.